Born in the Panama Canal Zone 80 years ago, Mr. Zidbeck came to California in 1944 with his mother and three siblings. He enlisted in the US Army after graduating from high school. Honorably discharged in 1952, he attended college under the G.I. Bill. After graduating from UCLA in 1958, he worked as a probation officer in LA County. George's wife of 55 years died this past August. However, he plans to remain in San Luis Obispo County since retiring in 1985.
In addition to penning observations and reflections since living in San Luis Obispo County, George has authored six volumes of a family saga that addresses the negative influence of alcohol on a family from the perspective of the mother (two volumes); the father (three volumes); and the first born son. Anyone interested in contacting the author, may write George Zidbeck.
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Rochester, George's Good Buddy |
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A Friend
by George Zidbeck
Such a mystifying word, friend. Standing alone what does it mean? Does the context alter that meaning? Many people have heard the saying, "A dog is man's best friend." But is man dog's best friend? One professional football quarterback might think otherwise.
"Let me live in a house by the side of the road, and be a friend to man." Sure, the word sounds nice when used as a poetic metaphor, and I guess the writer intended his friendship for women and children also, but he didn't say so. If you're not a friend must you be a foe? Do we have to go to a dictionary for enlightenment? Or maybe, if we can find a believer handily, we can make inquiry of a Quaker for his/her definition. Too many options. Therefore, for purpose of this column, I'm going to describe one person whom I have known for 56 years, and whom I call my best friend.
Let's step back to the spring of 1955. I had enrolled in El Camino Junior College near Gardena, California. Previously, I began my civilian college credits at Long Beach City College following my discharge from the U.S. Army in October 1952. At age 22, I had to take physical education. California Education Code at the time mandated P.E. for any student under age 25. I didn't object because I thought it'd be nice to get out on a basketball court and shoot some hoops with some guys. Turns out I had to join a team and play for realsies. Not for me such arduous panting. I paid a doctor fifty bucks to show that the hepatitis from which I had been treated at Letterman Army Hospital in San Francisco had debilitated me to where regular PE proved too stressful. (What? You suspected I bribed the doc? Shame on you!)
Consequently, when I transferred to El Camino, I (mistakenly) believed that the above excuse carried over. Not the case. I appealed, and was told that if another doctor certified me unfit, the school wouldn't hold me to P.E. classes. Well, I didn't have the bucks to spare to underwrite another physical exam. However, the junior college administrator told me to talk to the head coach to see if he had an answer. Surprisingly, the man did. To shorten this tale, just know that I signed on to play croquet. Nothing like that activity to toughen a vet's loins.
Dutifully, the next morning I reported to the instructor handling the modified P.E. program. She directed me to the croquet court. And there, puttzing around with one mallet and one ball, a solitary guy my age, but a little taller, lazily tried to strike a ball through a hoop.
After my introduction to Ron Pellett, he looked puzzled. "What are you doing out here? What's wrong with you? You sure look healthy to me." After hearing my story, he responded, "That's unbelievable. I was body surfing in Hermosa Beach after my discharge from the Navy, and a wave crashed me to the shore and broke my neck. I first went to the General Hospital in Torrance as a paraplegic before they transferred me to the naval hospital in Long Beach. The docs were sure I'd never walk. But here I am."
Yeah, we were both vets and both on limited P.E. More importantly—as we played some half-hearted croquet—we found ourselves discussing our pasts while slowly discovering mutual interests in literature. Notwithstanding that his childhood hearkened to Kansas while mine started in the Panama Canal Zone, we enjoyed our gab and after PE class, carried our dialogue over to the open patio area near the cafeteria where I joined his buddies for coffee. Whereas he intended to transfer to Berkeley after two years and major in electronic engineering, I only needed one more semester before transferring to UCLA to major in anthropology.
By semester's end, we saw each other regularly off campus. He had met my wife, and when he met a woman and decided to marry, we shared activities as married couples. Even after he went north to Oakland, we kept in touch by mail. Moreover, when he drove south with his pregnant wife for her to see her family in Torrance, the two stopped by to visit Judy and me.
Although I may have had a head start with college, I had reason to miss two semesters, so he obtained his four-year degree before me. A mutual friend and I drove north to see him at summer's end after he started working for an aerospace firm.
Coming up to a tragic part here, but even that tragedy further cemented our friendship. Before he graduated, his wife bore him a son. And shortly after he started work, his wife went into a hospital for her second delivery. Without providing the medical minutia, and stating the event simply, his wife and second child died from delivery complications.
Shortly after, he relocated to a San Fernando Valley suburb, and tried to pick up his life. Again, the sequence of events need no presentation other than your knowing that eventually Ron's brother in New York took the infant son into his family – Ron ritually sending child support and making annual visits. In the interim, his mother came out from Missouri to watch her grandson until the move.
Working for the Bendix Corporation at the northwestern edge of San Fernando Valley, Ron purchased property in nearby Sylmar. It was close enough to Carson, where I had moved with my family after graduating from UCLA and finding work with the L.A. County Probation Department. Thus, we visited one another periodically and shared social invites—me with his friends and vice-versa.
Whether our conversations covered politics, philosophy, or religion, we rarely differed. One exception comes quickly to mind. Many years ago when Nixon ran for president, Ron told me he planned to vote for the man in that "we need a sneaky little lawyer to run this country." He later fessed up, admitting he had made a terrible mistake. In one area—humor—we consistently agree. Ya gotta laugh. We both laugh today about the Nixon matter, and damn near everything else.
Since our initial introduction back in 1955, the years have flown by. Along the following decades, we both quit smoking and, in a surprising coincidence, although we were miles apart—he in Sylmar, me in Las Vegas—both resolved to put alcohol behind us. Today we can look back on 34 years of sobriety.
I retired in 1985, a year after Ron, and moved up to San Luis Obispo County, where I continue living in my functionally comfortable retirement cottage. However, an aerospace firm asked him to assist this one project they had, so he accepted another year of employment. He stayed in his Panorama City condo and drove north regularly to visit my wife and me. Such trips included intros to the totality of San Luis Obispo County. Ron grew evermore enchanted with the area.
Approximately seven years ago, he came up to check out an over-55 development in Paso Robles and signed on. Swimming had been his main recreation, the Panorama City condo complex having a small pool. He expanded that exercise when he moved north – the Traditions Complex having a larger pool. Nevertheless, that surfing injury he suffered before starting his junior college education gradually worsened. His right side started turning numb, his gait uncertain. Still, he made it a point to swim a half mile daily at the over 55 community pool. He loved sunbathing at the pool's edge and the spa soak that followed.
Ron had fallen in the past and regained an upright posture without experiencing any major consequence. Then, about four years ago, he fell and had a simple fracture on his left lower leg bone. Gradually, more falls followed, but no more broken bones. Even without fractures however, he required an emergency trip to the hospital with severe pain in the right side of his abdomen. The first suspect put the blame on the gall bladder. The surgeon wanted more info and asked for a cat scan. Good thing. The culprit turned out to be cancerous growth on his transverse colon. Surgical excision and subsequent chemotherapy took care of that problem.
A couple of trouble free years followed. Then, during the spring of this year, following the completion of one ritual swim, he started having a sharp pain in his right shoulder. Following six trips to the ER for realigning his right arm to the shoulder, he went to an orthopedic surgeon. Following an MRI, the doctor diagnosed major rotator cuff damage. Corrective surgery replaced the cuff and the upper arm. The operation proved successful, but during the weeks before the surgery, his total body musculature had weakened overall.
I witnessed not only his physical deterioration, but also his declining morale. He reached a point where he decided he could no longer sustain an independent lifestyle, telling me, "I'm ready to go into an assisted living facility." I had no argument against that decision.
In early October, I drove him to Arvada, Colorado to a Lutheran Medical Home northeast of Denver. He had placed a lady friend there years earlier and had simultaneously added his name to their list, never knowing if and when he might move to the establishment. Well, the day came. I also have my name on their list. Who's to say that I too might move into that Arvada care center? Should that day arrive, I'd like to have the two of us sunning ourselves in adjoining rocking chairs and finding some measure of comfort and humor in our surroundings. After all, ya gotta laugh!
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